


The Door

by 5her1ock



Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguity, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gardens & Gardening, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, Inspired by Sherlock (TV), Ominous, One Shot, Open to Interpretation, Short, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5her1ock/pseuds/5her1ock
Summary: This is literally just me playing with imagery.Ending kind of inspired by a very specific scene in Sherlock S3 E2.
Kudos: 1





	The Door

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really fanfiction, this is just me playing around and being a bit inspired by Sherlock, but this isn't about Sherlock if that makes sense. I just wrote this because I was bored and wanted to write something.

She knew the garden well. She spent many a long afternoon of her youth running among the flowers, trying to catch butterflies, and weaving among the hedges chasing after her siblings. It was different now. Not at all as she remembered. The flowers were gone, suffocated by weeds that crawled along the ground, like snakes lying still to surprise their prey. Dirt littered the greyish-green pathway that was once pristine and shone white. There were no longer benches as there used to be. Only one remained, if it even qualified as a whole bench when it sat crumpled in several cement pieces. She took a seat on the rim of the fountain which still had it’s home in the center of the garden. It too had not made it through the years intact. Cracks were woven into it’s sides, having become host to an array of mosses. The spout which once sent water to cascade down the fountain’s levels was rusted shut. The fountain boasted no water, but merely lay victim to a collection of garbage in it’s pool. She placed her hand gently on a chipped piece of the fountain’s center tier before continuing her exploration of the dilapidated outdoor space. She came to a halt when she noticed something she did not recognize. Even though the place had changed, she still knew every inch of it. This was undoubtedly new. But it couldn’t be. The door looked to be in just as much ruin as it’s surroundings. It appeared blue, but the paint hung off the wood in spirals, clearly revealing traces of purple beneath. Both colors were dulled, and fiercely overpowered visually by the muddy-green bushes engulfing both sides of the door. What really caught her eye was the handle. It shone bright gold, and didn’t appear to be the least bit damaged. There were no water spots, it was not littered with any of the green speckles which the door itself hosted, there was no wear, no corruption by time. And it appeared not to have a locking mechanism. She grazed the top of the knob with her hand, and looked down at her fingers. No dirt or dust. She reached out her hand once again, gently gripping the sparkling metal, and turned it softly. The door made an awful squeaking sound as it began to open away from her. Her face went pale as her eyes registered what was behind the door. Her mouth hung open, and her limbs were stoic. She just stood, contemplating her next move, for what was behind the door… was inexplicable.


End file.
